Page 39 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
His smile is enigmatic. “It turns out Google is an incredible source of information.”
My brows shoot up. “You’re actually admitting you Googled me?”
“You’re saying you didn’t Google me?”
“Of course not.”
I say it with convincing force, not only because I’m a good liar, but also because it happens to be true. I didn’t Google him; Tabby did.
“Good,” he says. “You can never believe what you read on the Internet, anyway.”
That statement stops me cold, as does the pointed look he follows it with. We gaze at each other. I wonder if he can hear my heart jackhammering away inside my chest.
He turns away again and begins to assemble food on the counter. He pulls items from the refrigerator and takes pans down from hanging racks, getting ready to begin cooking. I take a moment to compose myself, and then pour two glasses of cabernet and join him at the stove.
I hold out a glass to Parker. “Do you mind if I watch?”
He takes the glass from me. That faint gleam of mischief returns to his eyes. “I’d love for you to watch.”
He’s not talking about cooking. That much I know. Everything this man says carries a subtext within a subtext beneath a hazy veil of misdirection and innuendo. It’s maddening.
“You should’ve been a politician.” I sip my wine as he sets a skillet on the stovetop, pours in a dollop olive oil, and lights the burner beneath the pan.
“Funny you should say that. I’ve recently decided to run for Congress.”
“You’re joking.”
“Dead serious I’m afraid.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the political type.”
He glances at me. Damn, those eyes are gorgeous.
“What type did you have me pegged for?”
Ruthless, lying, self-serving asshole. I smile my most innocuous smile. “Why, the entrepreneurial type, of course.”
Without taking his gaze from mine, he takes a long swallow of wine, lowers the glass, and licks his lips. “Is there anyone in your life you don’t lie to?”
I look at the ceiling, pretending to think. “Hmm. Yes, actually there are several. My gynecologist. My accountant. And my mother.” The vivid image of my mother’s face sobers me, robbing the playful tone from my voice. “I could never hide anything from her, even if I wanted to.”
He cocks his head, studying me. “So the Queen B has a mother. Somehow I imagined you brought yourself into being through sheer force of will.”
I look at him sharply, all teasing gone. Now we’re getting into more dangerous territory. Truthful territory. I have the horrifying thought that maybe Parker has his own Tabitha on payroll, someone who knows how to dig deep and uncover ancient, damaging lies.
If he does, and he or she is good at his or her job, this hide-and-seek game we’re playing is already over. And Parker’s won.
If he has, I’m going down swinging.
“That, too,” I say quietly, holding his gaze. “Because I was forced to. Because something terrible happened to me, and by extension to my whole family, and I had two choices: lie down and die, or stand up and fight. I decided to fight.”
He looks at me closely, examining my face, my stiff posture, my fingers white-knuckled around the stem of the wine glass. “And you’ve been fighting ever since.” When I don’t respond, he says more softly, “And you’re fighting right now. Why?”
I turn away, but he grasps my arm, sets his wine on the counter, takes my wine from my hand and sets it on the counter, and then takes me by the shoulders and forces me to face him. I churlishly look at my shoes instead.
In a low, urgent voice, he says, “I don’t know you well. Hell, I don’t really know you at all. But I do know I want to be one of the people you don’t lie to.”
Surprised, I glance up at him. His eyes are intensely focused on mine.
